Scars of the Heart
by animeobsessed001
Summary: Not all scars heal fully, especially the ones inflicted upon the heart. Over two centuries have passed since the American Revolution, and England is still having troubles coping. It's up to America to try and heal the old wounds. Slight USUK. Rated T for language.


**[Note from the Author: Hello there! **

**I know, I am a terrible author. I have two ongoing stories that need to be updated, but I go on and write this oneshot. I can't help it! I'm sorry to all my readers who are waiting T^T I'll get them done soon. **

**Anyway, this is my first Hetalia fic. Now, I'm only on episode fourteen, but I think I know enough about this part to write it out, plus I know a whole bunch from all my Hetalia obsessed friends. I hope I don't disappoint anyone xD**

**No, Hetalia is not mine. If it was, poor Canada wouldn't be so invisible. **

**Happy Readings!**

**~Kumori]**

I pant and look straight ahead of me, through my drenched dirty blonde bangs. I'm sluggish and feel heavy from all the rain that has soaked into my coat and boots. My shoulders are sore and I have a hard time keeping my head up, but I refuse to lower my gaze from the person who is standing less than ten feet away from me. My enemy. My friend. My father figure. Great Britain. England.

Despite how utterly tired I am, I hold his gaze. Even from here and through the storm that separates us, the hurt in his emerald eyes are as plain as day. My gut wrenches at the sight. After all this, after all the bloodshed, I start to doubt my motives.

Is independence really worth this? Worth all the killing, the heartache, the bad feelings? I love England like my father. Seeing the pain in his eyes makes me want to drop my gun and embrace him. To tell him that I'm sorry, and that I didn't mean to hurt him.

A small groan catches my attention and I glance ever so slightly over my shoulder. One of the soldiers behind me grits his teeth, and I can see that he is in pain. The large gash on his shoulder looks serious. Even though his shoulder is slashed open, he holds his gun up without fault. He's ready to lay his life on the line for my country. For his freedom.

That's right. Freedom is worth it. If I do not succeed, these men behind me will only go back to being miserable. They will go back to living the lives they had before, trapped under England's control. They will have no power. I will have no power.

I look down at my apparel. The colors of my country are dyed in the material. Red, white, and blue. That's right. My country. My own. I don't need Britain. I don't need anyone. I can be independent. I can be free. Just watch.

Resolve fresh in my mind, I raise my gun at England and aim for his chest. I'm not going down. I am not letting my people down. I will win this war. For them. For me.

"Hey, Britain!" I call out as loud as I can to be heard over the thunderous storm. "All I want is my freedom!" As I speak, I become more passionate. My eyes narrow at the target before me and I grit my teeth. It's time that I end this. "I am no longer a child, nor your little brother. From now on, consider me independent!"

England looks back at me with an expression of disbelief. His jaw drops, and I see that the truth slowly sets in. Multiple emotions are evident on his face when he finally realizes that I am serious. Surprise, hurt, betrayal. He keeps my gaze, as if he hopes that I will lower my gun and surrender, but I won't. After a brief moment, he grits his teeth and tightens his grip on his own gun.

Suddenly, he runs at me, his eyes hard and narrow. I'm taken by surprise, but instinctively raise my weapon just in time and his gun clashes with my own. He digs the point of his gun into the handle of mine, and thrusts it upwards, and my gun flies out of my hands and lands behind him. He aims his gun right at me, and now disarmed, I have no way to protect myself.

Panting, he meets my eyes again. Anger flashes in the bright green orbs as he says, "I won't allow it! You idiot! Why can't you follow anything through to the end?" His voice nearly cracks at the end.

I keep my eyes locked with his. I stand straight up, as tall as I can present myself. If he wants to shoot me, so be it. This war is ending tonight. Whether it is him or I who is victorious, it will all end. It's time. I set my jaw and glare defiantly as I wait for him to pull the trigger.

"Ready! Aim!" his head soldier calls behind him. Weapons click and clatter as they are raised into position. I sense my men stiffen behind me and I feel the tension rise. We all stand in the pouring rain at a standstill. Though no one says anything, the silence paired with the harsh rain is deafening.

England continues to pant in front of me. He presses the tip of his gun into my chest and keeps my gaze. My heart is thudding madly in my chest, but I refuse to show any weakness in front of him. I will show him that I am strong. I will show him that I am not a child who needs him anymore. I am my own country, I am independent. I will not back down.

He raises the gun to my face and my heart picks up speed. He really is going to shoot me. He's going to kill me. I never thought that this was going to happen. I never knew that the one that raised me would be the one to kill me. I stare at the barrel of the gun and prepare myself for the final shot. At least I tried.

To my surprise, England slowly lowers his weapon. "There's no way I can shoot you. I can't," he says with a shaky voice.

My eyes widen in shock. He's not going to shoot me?

_Th-thunk_. England's gun fell out of his hands, and he follows right after. On his knees, he uses one hand to cover his face and sobs. "Why? Dammit, why? It isn't fair," he chokes.

Seeing the one I admire greatly bawling at my feet makes my heart constrict. I feel my defiant mask fall as I look down at him. A part of me wants to fall beside him and hug him, but I know I can't. This war must end.

"You know why," I mutter. I'm not sure if he hears me over the rain. His shoulders shake with sobs and he reaches his other hand and covers his face with that as well. A lump forms in my throat and I struggle to speak. "What happened? I remember when you were great. I looked up to you, Britain. You were like a father to me. Then you changed."

"I'm only trying to protect you!" he cries. "You're just a child! You don't know how cruel the rest of the world is! You don't know how to run your own country!"

I shake my head slightly. "You're wrong. I am not a child. I have grown. I know how cruel the world is, because you taught me. I may not know how to run my own country, but I can do the best I can! I don't need you babying me!"

Britain's shoulders shake more and his breath hitches. He sniffs and lowers his hands slowly to his sides. He tilts his head back to look at me. His eyes were red and puffy around the edges, and his usually shinning emerald irises were dulled to a dark green. His golden blonde hair is plastered to his cheeks and forehead. He blinks rapidly, trying to keep the precipitation from dripping onto his eyeballs. He opens his mouth and takes a shuddered breath before asking, "Why, America? Why can't you stay with me? Why must you leave me and become independent?"

The way his voice cracks and sounds so . . . heartbroken, makes my eyes water. I quickly turn my head to the side and break the eye contact we held. "I don't need you taking care of me, Britain. I'm fine on my own." I fight back tears as I turn to face my men. "We are finished here," I call to them. "Britain has surrendered."

The men cheer gleefully. I suppose I should be celebrating along with them, but I can't. I don't feel in the celebratory mood. The men march away and I follow them, leaving England alone in a heap of tears.

*.*.*.*

"England!" I cry out and wave my hand frantically above my head.

England prickles at the sound of my voice and turns to face me with a scowl on his face. "What do you want, you bloody git?" he growls.

I raise both my hands to either side of my head in a 'don't-kill-me' gesture. "What? I can't say hello?"

"No," England grumbled and walked away.

"Duuude!" I whine. "Don't walk away from me! That ain't cool, man!"

"I don't care, now leave me alone."

I sigh and watch him walk away. What's his deal? Why's he acting like this? As uptight as England can be, he doesn't usually just outright walk away from me. I wonder what I did this time.

"Ah, so it is that time of year again, huh?" someone says behind me.

I spin around and France is leaning against the wall in a nonchalant manner. One leg is crossed over the other with his foot pressing into the wall while the other keeps him upright; one of his arms is crossed over his abdomen while the other holds a rose to his lips that are set in a thin frown. "I hate it when he gets like this."

"Huh? What do ya mean?" I ask.

France looks at me curiously. "You mean you haven't noticed?"

"Noticed what?" I'm confused now. What the hell is the guy talking about?

"Every year around this time, England gets to be a little testy."

"How come?" I think for a moment before I ask, "Does he have a man period or something?"

France hits the back of his head on the wall he leans against. He grumbles some stuff in French, but all I can make out is 'stupid' and 'fat'. I open my mouth to give him a good ol' fashion American verbal beat down, but he speaks before I get a chance. "Think, America. What is today's date?"

"Huh? Oh. Um," I say as I reach into my coat pocket and pull out my planner. "July third. A day before Independence Day for Americans. So?"

France shakes his head at me, as if he's disappointed. "Are you really that slow? Has it occurred to you that England is still hurt by the fact that you declared independence from him?"

Wait, what? England is still upset about that? "Are you serious?" I ask. "But it's been, like, over a century!"

"A broken heart is not easily healed, mon ami," France says knowingly.

That gets me thinking. Broken heart? I broke England's heart when I broke away from him? But why? I figured that he was upset back then because he just didn't think I was ready. I must make an amusing face, because France chuckles.

"Don't strain your brain now," he teased.

"France, did I really hurt England that bad?" I ask seriously.

France seems to sense my mood and wipes the smirk off his face. He shrugs his shoulders. "Who knows? The man refuses to talk to anyone about that."

"Really?"

"Oui. I tried to asking him about it once, and the petit lapin tried to kill me." He shudders as he recalls the memory. "Afterwards he fell into a very deep depression for a few days."

I scratched my chin thoughtfully. "I've never seen him like that…"

"That is because he doesn't want you to see how bad you've hurt him."

A lump forms in my throat and I scratch the back of my head. "I-I couldn't have hurt him that bad…"

"Don't be so sure, mon ami. Do us all a favor and go talk to him, oui?" France says.

"But—"

"No buts. Go help him."

I sigh. "Fiiine. But if he kills me, I'm so comin' back to haunt your ass."

"Fair enough."

I start down the hall of the UN building to where England went. "Eeeeenglaaaaaand! Eeeeeeeenglaaaaaand!"

"Shut the hell up," a familiar grouchy voice snaps from the room in my right.

"Aww, but that's no fun," I whine as I step into the room. I spy England sitting on a sofa alone in the dark room. The window behind him was concealed by curtains. He's just sitting alone in the dark? That's not like England at all.

"I don't give a flying fuck," he answers spitefully.

"Sheesh, Iggy, take a chill pill."

"What do you want, America?" England growls.

I sigh and run my hand through my hair, teasing my cowlick as I do so. "I just wanna know what's eatin' at ya. What's wrong?"

"Nothing is wrong, now leave me alone."

I shake my head. "No. I'm not leaving until you tell me." I cross the cold, dark room and take a seat next to him. "What is the matter?" I force myself to leave out the American slang that most countries have come to hate (though I don't understand why, 'cause it's totally awesome and sounds cool). I need to show him that I'm serious here.

"I already told you, it's not—"

"England, I am not accepting that answer. As the hero of the world, I demand that you tell me what is making you so upset," I say with a frown.

England glares at me. His eyes bore into my soul for a split second before his shoulders begin to shake. "Why, America? Why did you become independent?"

"I explained to you all those years ago, England. I grew up."

"But you didn't have to break off so abruptly! I could've—"

"There's nothing that you could've done, England," I say quietly.

An awkward silence envelopes us, and we sit in silence. What can I say? How am I supposed to help him? How is he still so sore after two centuries?

"You broke my heart, America…"

My eyes widen and I stare at him in shock. Did he just say that? Did I hear something? Am I starting to hear those weird creature things that England always talks to? Flying strawberry mouse or some shit like that?

"It hurt. So, so much…" he whispers.

A small part of my brain is relieved that I'm not really hearing from the weird, oddly colored flying woodland creatures that he speaks of so often; but the greater part of it is overcome with guilt. Did I really hurt him that bad? All I did was declare independence so I could be my own country. I just wanted to prove to him that I wasn't some little child that needed to be babied, but an equal who could stand on his own.

"England… I-I didn't realize—"

"Of course you didn't, you git! You were too worked up with breaking away from me to realize that everything I ever did was for you! You an-and your damn rebellion!"

The pain in his voice shatters my heart. What do I say to that? I didn't know that my freedom had made him like this. I only wanted to show him that I am an equal. That I don't need to be babied…

"I just wanted to prove to you that I could take care of myself," I mutter.

England looks at me sadly. "I knew you could, America," he whispers with a cracking voice. "I never doubted that. You were just in such a hurry to leave me. It came as such a surprise. What would you have done in my position, America? The little one that you found and raised suddenly declares war against you after defying your laws and openly humiliating you. What would you think?"

My jaw drops and I stare at England's clouded green eyes. "I-I did that to you?" Now that I think about it, I really did. My people didn't like to be taxed, so they became openly hostile. Soon, the Boston Tea Party took place with my help. Not long after, we declared war. "I-I…"

"I know, America. I know. Now that you are older, you realize what effects your actions have caused, but it is too late. You've scarred me."

I glance over his body, searching for any scars. England catches my eyes and shakes his head.

"I didn't mean physically." He raised one hand to his chest and placed it on the left side. "You scarred my heart. Even now, after over two hundred years, I still cannot get over the fact that the little angel I once loved betrayed me."

Before I have a chance to regret my actions, I lean across the sofa and wrap my arms around his broad, but slim shoulders. He gasps in shock, but I tighten my grip on him just a little, not too much to crack him in half. "I know this is two centuries too late, but I'm sorry, England. I never meant to hurt you so bad."

England says nothing and remains stiff. His breathing hitches just a tad, but other than that there are no signs of him even acknowledging the fact that I am laying against him with my arms around him and just apologized for pretty much killing him on the inside.

I feel his eyes on my back and I look up to see the clouded green hues. I think for a half second before I lean over and flick on the lamp on the table beside the sofa and a small yellow light brightens the room. England looks like he is going to say something, but before he does; I press one of my hands to his cheek and turn his head so he is looking me in the eye.

"Your eyes have gone dark, England. I remember when they used to be so bright, they would sparkle…" I trail off as I stare into the foggy pine green hues of my once caretaker. I think back to when I was little and would look into his eyes and they would sparkle like a buffed emerald. They were just as bright too.

England smacks my hand away and turns his head quickly. "What on earth do you think you're doing?" he demands.

I shrug. "I was just making an observation." After a slight pause, I add, "I wish that your eyes were the same as back then. You were much happier then."

England says nothing, but stands up and walks out of the room without looking back. Before he leaves, I swear I can see a tear fall down his cheek. I almost jump up to go after him, but I decide against it.

I sigh loudly and faceplant into the couch. Damn. Maybe it's hopeless. Maybe I'll never be able to make England happy again…

**[Note from the Author: Hey-o! **

**Ehehe, don't hate me for the ending please ^^; I couldn't think of how to make England forgive America and still keep him in character (well, as much as he is, anyway). Maybe after I watch some more Hetalia I can get it. **

**So that brings me to my next point. I did this with one of my other oneshots and it worked pretty well. Do you guys think this should stay a oneshot, or should I add another chapter after I become more educated in the way that is Hetalia? Please leave me a review to let me know :D**

**Well, that's about it. Hope you guys enjoyed. As for my Laven fans, the fics are being worked on. Promise. And summer is just around the corner, so that will make updating soo much easier :D**

**Until Next Time!**

**~Kumori]**


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